


i

by vowelinthug



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Disabled Character, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-03
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-10-27 04:08:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10801377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vowelinthug/pseuds/vowelinthug
Summary: Silver refuses to betray his crew. He refuses to talk, so Vane's Quartermaster takes steps to ensure he'll never say anything again.--Alternate s3, where Silver loses his tongue instead of his leg





	i

**Author's Note:**

> for lesbianjackrackham's tumblr prompt: "Hi, I can't remember your policy on prompts but I got this image of Vane's crew taking Silver's tongue/voice instead of his leg haunting me and I need someone to suffer alongside me. So. Enjoy."
> 
> my wife disowned me for writing this so i hope you all like it

* * *

 

A couple months after Charles Town, Flint walks into his cabin to find Silver staring out the window. There's nothing out there but sea and sky. He's shirtless, his hair limp and down, and he's holding a pistol aimed at his own heart.

 

* * *

 

When they’d finished blowing up the town, Flint had asked for Silver, and had been met with a hushed silence from the crew. When they’d led him to Silver, all he’d found was more silence.

Not just silence. Silver was near catatonic, stretched out in a hammock below deck. His face was pale, but his eyes were red, and his lips and chin were pink with washed away blood. His mouth was full of gauze, and he was looking at nothing.

Until Flint walked in. Then he was looking at Flint.

Flint still felt Miranda’s blood splattered on his face. The scent of gunpowder burned in his nose and on his clothes. He didn't know what to say.

He said, “Silver.”

Wordlessly (always, now, wordlessly), Silver handed him a piece of parchment.

It was a confession. Silver had sold the location of the Urca gold to Rackham. He had conspired against Flint. His intent had been to leave with his share as soon as they'd returned to Nassau, abandoning Flint with nothing.

The intention in Silver’s eyes was clear, as Flint read the note over and over in Silver’s shaky scrawl. He hadn't written it, he _couldn't_ say it, but what Silver clearly meant was this: _kill me_.

That's part of the reason why Flint didn't. He wasn't feeling in a very generous mood to give Silver what he wanted. But also, a man who might outsmart _him_ , betray him, and then specifically _not_ betray him, and suffer such devastation because of it -- that was not a man Flint understood. And he wasn't willing to put that kind of man in an early grave before he could figure him out.

Before, especially after what had just occurred with Peter, Flint had thought he'd know all that men were capable of. Trust Silver to keep surprising him.

He burned the confession right there in front of Silver, and didn't say another word about it. Neither, of course, did Silver.

 

* * *

 

The crew made him their Quartermaster anyway, after everything he did for them. They said it didn't matter if he couldn't _speak_ for them, because they knew he still had their ear. And he had the Captain’s ear, too. And Silver could write, and the Captain could read, so what difference did it make?

Flint hadn't been allowed to voice an opinion in the vote, but he doubted very much that Silver had much interest in their safety any longer.

Silver accepted the nomination with a single nod, and shrunk away when the others tried to congratulate him. He had thinned, for eating was still something of an issue for him, even though the gauze had been removed. He’d let the hair grow on his face, and his trousers were still the ones he’d been wearing the day Vane’s man took his tongue. Everyone could still see the bloodstains.

As Quartermaster, he was expected to go over the rail with the crew. Flint expected some kind of pushback, especially when he’d proposed his plan to sack Colonial towns for hanging pirates. Silver had just shrugged. When Flint had offered to help him fight better so as not to die, all he got was a closed-mouth sneer.

Silver fought like a man looking to die. He wielded his sword like an axe, cutting and _cutting_ at men fiercely, with no attention paid to his surroundings. He should have died a dozen times over with each raid, but somehow he always wound up alive, covered in blood, surrounded by more bodies than Flint himself, mouth opened in a black, soundless howl.

Flint wondered if Silver’s despair would ever end, and figured it would on the same day that Flint’s ended. That day, Miranda would return from the dead and Silver’s tongue would grow back.

He hadn't been able to properly grieve Miranda, it felt like. He had to speak to the crew more, now that Silver couldn't speak for him. Silver just stood behind him, eyes shadowed, hair dark and framing his face. But it made Flint feel stronger, somehow, with Silver at his back. Without that presence, he felt brittle and temporary, likely to crumble away to nothing. But with Silver watching him -- and Silver capable of _God_ only knows, in this state --  Flint felt sharper than ever before.

Half of Silver’s power had been in his voice. But the other part of it had resided in his ability to watch people, to see right through them and to know them completely.

Silver watched Flint all the time, now.

 

* * *

 

A couple months after Charles Town, Flint walks into his cabin to find Silver, staring out the window, with a gun pointed right at his heart.

Flint approaches slowly, walking around so he’s at Silver’s side. Silver doesn’t look away from the sea, but he’s aware of Flint. He’s breathing hard through his hollow mouth, chest shining with sweat, rising and falling under the barrel of the gun.

Flint swallows. It’s only mid-day. The sun is colorless and dusty in the room. He says, “How long have you been like this?”

Silver cuts a quick glance at him. Then, with his free hand, he holds up three slim fingers.

Flint hasn’t seen Silver all morning. That could mean three seconds, three minutes, or three hours. Flint understands the temptation, he _understands_ it. He has felt his own trigger finger itch, too, when the nights were at their stillest. But he never believed in making things easy for his enemies, and killing himself would be far too easy for them. If he’s going to die, he wants it to be as difficult as possible for everyone involved.

“Silver,” he says.

“I,” says Silver, a guttural, round noise. “I -- aan--”

“Say that again,” Flint says. He’s close enough now that he could reach for the gun, if he is quick about it.

A low whine emits from Silver’s chest, and a single tear falls from his eye. “I --”

“You,” Flint interrupts.

Silver finally looks at him. His eyes are wide and wet and blue. He’s shaking all over, Flint realizes, when he puts his hand over the one holding Silver’s gun.

“I,” Silver says again, softer, so soft it doesn’t really sound like anything, but Flint hears it.

“You,” Flint agrees. “You. _You_ are John fucking Silver, and the world hasn’t silenced you yet. So don’t finish the fucking job for them.”

 

* * *

 

After that, Silver learns to communicate. He refuses to carry around paper and ink, but it turns out that Flint can read lips, somewhat, if the person is very clearly stating, “ _No_.” Flint has gotten quite adept at reading Silver’s facial expressions, and so they’ll have whole conversations that way, him speaking and Silver’s eyebrows reacting.

Silver touches him too, now. It’s only startling because he’s aware of how they didn’t used to touch. Silver taps his elbow to get his attention, kicks his ankle lightly when he agrees, shoves into him as he storms away when he doesn’t.

When Flint had woken up after the storm, still strapped to the wheel, only Silver unties him and half-carries him to the cabin, one arm thrown over his shoulder which are, admittedly, quite broad now. He’s figured out how to eat again, and the constant fighting ( _constant_ ) has also filled him out, and he doesn’t struggle at all when setting Flint down in his bed, even when Flint clings a little to his arm when he’s fading back into unconsciousness.

When Silver gestures wildly to DeGroot to ready the launch weeks later, preparing to set sail for that whale carcass, he hooks his hand around Flint’s elbow and tugs him angrily towards it, tired and aching and still, somehow, trying to survive. It should mean something to Flint, that the two men most eager to die on this ship be the ones hunting down their salvation. It probably means something about himself he doesn’t want to think about, so he doesn’t. And when Silver stomps on the bottom of the boat, and the bottom of the boat stomps back, he feels a thrill he hasn’t felt since… Since Thomas, maybe. After they haul the shark into the boat and it’s done, he asks Silver, “Again?” And Silver might not have much tongue anymore, but Christ, does he look nice when he smiles.

When they’re trapped in the cages on Maroon Island, and Flint only sees one way in which everyone (someone) can survive, Silver sits down beside him, close enough so their arms brush together. Flint doesn’t look at him, which is a little unfair, because that’s the only way Silver can speak to him, now. But Silver encircles Flint’s wrist, and turns his hand over, pulling it closer towards him. Then he rests the inside of his own wrist against two of Flint’s fingers, and Flint can feel the beat of Silver’s heart racing like mad, the throb under Flint’s fingertips almost indistinguishable from his own pulse. Silver’s heart could be beating like that because he is angry, or anxious, or aroused. But Flint finally looks up, and he sees that it is entirely, wholly _fear_. With Flint’s attention finally on him, Silver takes the opportunity to mouth, loud and clear, “ _No_.” And Flint hears him.

 

* * *

 

Billy goes into the tavern with Silver and a few others to spread the news of Flint’s return.

Flint only hears about what happened afterwards. A few different iterations of it. Billy was very blunt and direct about imparting the message, but then Dufresne had been there, and had started laying into them. Insulting them all for following a madman like Flint, who wasn’t nearly as capable as he thought he was. Calling anyone who feared Flint spineless and weak and _stupid_.

No one will tell Flint specifically what Dufresne said about Silver, but Flint knows he said _something_. Because apparently, Silver had stepped in the middle of this argument between Billy and Dufresne, and silently bashed Dufresne’s head in with a metal tankard.

It had, from Flint’s understanding of the tale, taken quite a few blows for Dufresne to die. No one had approached Silver to stop him. Silver hadn’t made a single noise the entire time.

He finds Silver in his cabin. He’s staring out the window again, except it’s pitch black outside, and this time, he isn’t holding a gun. He’s idly wrapping a bandage around his knuckles, which look like they’ve gotten some bruising.

Flint sits down next to him. “Are you alright?”

Silver shrugs, looking down at his hand. He stretches his fingers out slowly, then curls them in again, like he’s showing there’s no permanent damage.

“I wasn’t talking about the hand.” But Flint finds himself taking it into his own lap, unwrapping the bandages because Silver hadn’t done it properly at _all_.

Silver has killed before. He’s killed quite a lot, by now. But, as far as Flint knows anyway, never a man he knew personally. Never for anything so personal as this, and it’s not even slightly the same thing.

Suddenly, there’s a hand under his chin, lifting his head up. He looks deep into Silver’s eyes, taking in the wonder, the question, the unknown, the darkness. Silver lifts his uninjured hand away from Flint’s face and holds it out between them. It’s steady, and when he drops it, it lands right on Flint’s knee.

Flint’s no longer working on the bandage anymore. He’s still looking at Silver’s face, and he finds himself leaning in, moving closer.

Silver flinches back sharply, nearly hitting his head on the wall.

“I’m sorry,” Flint says quickly, also jerking back. “I thought --”

Silver shakes his head minutely, but his fingernails dig into Flint’s knee, keeping him there.

“You -- “ Flint stops, looking at his knee and Silver’s nails. It’s selfish to think, but one problem with Silver being unable to speak is that Flint is forced to say things aloud he’d rather not. “You...don’t want to... kiss me, then?”

Silver shakes his head again, more firmly, still not letting Flint leave. He makes an abortive gesture towards his mouth, and then he scowls at himself. His injured hand curls into a fist.

Flint feels himself beginning to smile. “You….think I don’t want to kiss you here?” He finds himself leaning in again, fingers trailing along Silver’s jaw.

Silver is frozen, watching him. He looks nothing like the cold, silent shadow that’s been following after him for months, ready to lift a blade when Flint lifts a blade, mouthing along to Flint’s own enraged speech. He looks young and pained and unsure. But that’s fine, because Flint thinks he might finally understand him now.

“I want to kiss you _everywhere_ ,” Flint says quietly, and he starts with the corner of Silver’s lips.

Silver moans deep in his chest, turning his head to kiss Flint fully. He keeps it closed and soft, unsure of what might still hurt Silver. But then Silver opens his mouth a little, just enough for Flint to lick inside his lips. He hasn’t realized how much he wanted it, but as soon as Silver lets him in, Flint knows all he wants left in this life is to share his own tongue with Silver.

At some point, Silver crawls into his lap, clutching at Flint’s ears as Flint kisses down his neck. Silver keens up into it, gasping.

“I--” Silver says breathlessly. “ _I--_ ”

“Yes,” Flint says into his neck. “You, Silver, _you_.”

Suddenly, Silver’s hands pull on the back of his neck, lifting him up. He gives Flint a serious look, all eyebrows, and says, in that way of his that sounds more like a roar each day, “ _I._ ”

Flint is breathing hard, like he’s just breached the surface of something after months underwater. He tangles his hands into Silver’s long, undone hair. “I,” he agrees, and feels Silver smile into another hard kiss.

They are an _I_ now, Flint feels it in his bones. In Silver’s bones. They are two men made singular, entirely reactionary, the one effect made from the whole world’s cause. Flint raises his hand, and Silver strikes. Flint speaks, and Silver is the echo, rumbling deep into the earth. Silver is the reflection of Flint’s rage, too great for him to properly form words, and Flint is the reflection of Silver’s agony, taking every necessary step to render civilization asunder.

Flint clutches at Silver’s back, needing him closer, and feels Silver do the same. He can’t wait for them to silence the world for good.

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> sequel: [them](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11342499)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [i [PODFIC]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11384736) by [ponytailflint (inkgeek)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkgeek/pseuds/ponytailflint), [vowelinthug](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vowelinthug/pseuds/vowelinthug)
  * [Cover for "i" by vowelinthug](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12133053) by [RunawayMarbles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RunawayMarbles/pseuds/RunawayMarbles)




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